Healing
by instraightjackets
Summary: When Sherlock returns after two years of convincing the world of his death, John must find a way to accept Sherlock back into his life.
1. Second Meeting

It had been four months since Sherlock's resurrection, as John liked to call it. Before that happened, it had been two years.

Two years of believing that his friend was dead.

Of telling himself he could have stopped it.

And during all that time, Sherlock let him believe it.

Now here they sat, listening to Lestrade as if the ordeal of the last two and a half years never happened. Except nothing was the same.

When Sherlock returned, John left 221B Baker Street. How could he have stayed in the same house of the man who didn't care enough to mention that he was not, in fact, dead?

He came back through Scotland Yard, Sherlock did. Managed to convince those at the top that he had an excusable reason for faking his own death, no doubt his brother helped.

The whole department thought they would be able to wash their hands of Sherlock Holmes after they legitimized his unexpected comeback.

But another case would baffle them. Waiting for more evidence meant losing time which meant losing time which meant more people getting hurt. They couldn't afford that happening.

So Sherlock had to be called. It really was only a matter of time.

This had to be kept quiet, of course. Chaos ensued the last time the media got a hold of Sherlock Holmes and it couldn't be allowed to happen again. Not after how foolish the department looked after putting their trust in a "fake genius."

The work he did for them was now kept in the most confidential of files.

It was on these occasions that John hated being called in to work. Honestly, it was as if Lestrade chose to be ignorant of the history he shared with Sherlock.

John worked for them now. Examining bodies at crime scenes, running the autopsy, hypothesizing with the officers the cause of death.

Today was the second time since Sherlock came back that John had been in a room with him. It hurt less than the first. Now he knew what to expect.

Oh, there it was. The bitterness, sadness. The sudden increase in heart rate as he entered the meeting room this morning to find Sherlock seated at a large oak table. There were others at the table. John saw none of them.

Sherlock's green eyes found John's brown ones which immediately looked away as he struggled to keep a façade of calm and professionalism. But it seems that the universe is working against him, as lack of options forces him to take the chair nearly opposite Sherlock.

Everyone in that room knows the story of the world's only consulting detective and the doctor he took in.

Took in, as if he were some kind of pet. But to Sherlock, few people were anything more.

"Thank you all for coming," Lestrade said, his hands shoved in his pockets as he looked around the room. His eyes lingered on Sherlock who was ignoring him, for his eyes were looking somewhere else.

"There are two reasons I've gathered you all. One is because the head of the department has decided to allow Mr. Holmes resume working independently with Scotland Yard. Second-"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Ah, Inspector Anderson, still speaking are we?" and John thinks that it shouldn't affect him the way that it does whenever he insults the Anderson.

Anderson, turning red, ignored him, "The last time we employed this lunatic he almost brought down the entire department.

"Once again Anderson, I am a high func-,"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was getting upset, "This brings me to the second reason I have for gathering you all. There has been a series of unsolved assaults in central London."

There was a general pause, vacuum-like, in the room. John chose to break it.

"And, what is so different about these assaults that you felt the need to assemble such a group, Lestrade?"

Lestrade turned to John, he breathed out heavily, "This man draws on his victims, strange symbols. We've been able to identify a few symbols but many of them continue to elude us,"

Sherlock huffed a quiet sort of laugh that did not escape the notice of anyone in the room. John struggled to hide the smile that threatened to show. He had to remember that he was not on speaking terms with the man across the table.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, barely pausing as he continue, "and we need to know what they are if we are to figure out who this mad-man is."

Anderson emerged from his chastened state and raised his hand, "Do we actually have any leads? Or are we relying on the whims of a charlatan once again?"

An uncomfortable sort of silence descended upon the room. Sherlock's scandal and subsequent disappearing act last year had not yet been forgotten. Many of the officers were still, and always had been, against using such an odd method of solving cases. But Sherlock got them the results they needed.

Lestrade cleared his throat, discomfort evident.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes _will_ be assisting us in this case seeing as he does have a history of deciphering such codes."

"The ancient Chinese numerals was a completely different-" John started to protest the comparison when Lestrade interrupted.

"Yes, John I know, but I'm sure you two will figure it out."

"I'm sorry?" John was blinking rapidly, squinting his eyes, his confusion grew. "I thought you just wanted me to look at the body, Greg?"

"What? You guys are a team!" He said hurridly as he began to gather documents from the table. "Okay everyone, that's it for today. We will be meeting again tomorrow. 8 a.m."

"Wait, Greg?"

John attempted to reach the inspector, but lost him in the rush of officers eager to leave. With a sigh, John slapped the table and began gathering his things. The creaking of a chair alerted John to someone else still in the room. But he didn't look up, he didn't have to, he knew who it was.

"…John."


	2. Words

'No, no, no. Not now.'

John's mind was frantic as Sherlock approached him. They'd tried the talking-it-out thing when he first came back. It ended in tears and a black eye.

After months of ignoring texts and calls from Sherlock, he may have to force himself back into a partnership with the man. Could he?

"John." Sherlock repeated more firmly, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, Sherlock what is it?" John said turning to face him.

He tried to look him in the eye but couldn't. Instead he continued to shuffle the papers he held. The worse part about it was he knew what Sherlock was doing. Reading him, deducing his thoughts based on every gesture and breath he took.

Sherlock looked him full in the face his hands behind his back, straight-forward, as usual. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of where to start what would be a difficult conversation.

"I believe we should start with the victim's families, and their history, education and all of that. See what connected them."

John let out a short laugh. He wasn't even going to try again. All of this was his fault and he wasn't even going to attempt another apology.

"Yeah, let's do that," John said, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes.

He turned his back and left the room, leaving Sherlock standing there, looking at his back, a face filled with regret.

He realized he'd said the wrong thing even as the words left his mouth. But anything else would have made the situation uncomfortable for the both of them. The last thing either of them needed was for emotions run high.

Not after what happened last time.


	3. Flashback

John had received the call from Lestrade not three hours ago. An hour after that, he was still sitting on the couch in 221B in shock, phone clutched in his hand.

"He's not dead, John." Lestrade didn't have to say the name, he already knew.

Two hours later the phone rang again. John stared at it, weary. His face heavy with whatever it was he felt at the moment. It wasn't until the phone went to voicemail that he picked it up quickly with a gruff, "Yes?"

"Ah, Mr. Watson."

It was Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother and, if he was right about the not so subtle hints of the past, an important man in the government.

John was silent as he waited for him to continue.

"He wants to see you."

John cleared his throat, "Where?"

"Well, there is good enough I suppose. He'll be home within the hour."  
"Right." Home? What home? The flat hadn't been anything of the kind since the day Sherlock jumped.

"Try not to be too upset with him, you know what he's like."

John hung up the phone. No, he didn't know. The Sherlock he thought he knew would not have gone through such great lengths to deceive the public much less the man who he considered to be his only friend.

John got up, unable to stay seated any longer. His heart beat was out of control as he paced in front of the window. What was he to say to this man who he had considered dead for the better part of two years?

John's rational side told him to stay calm, that Sherlock must have had a reason for doing this. However his more passionate side wanted to tear everything down around him. He tried to contain the anger, the sadness that pushed its way to the surface.

He stopped abruptly and faced the door when he heard the footsteps. John was taken aback at how familiar it sounded. Steady, not in any rush. As if he was returning from another case, about to take an evening tea. John swallowed and stared at the approaching figure.

His hair was the first thing he noticed. It was shorter, though the curls were still visible. He hadn't shaved the last few days; the stubble around his mouth was different from the clean cut man he remembered. But the coat was the same, and the scarf.

John could barely meet his eyes then either.

Sherlock moved forward and stood just behind the chair, placing his hand on the back of it, as if to hold himself up.

"Hello, John."

Was that it? Of course it was. What was he expecting, honestly? A full break-down complete with diagrams of exactly how Sherlock managed to fall from such a height and just walk it off. John should have known better.

John ran a hand over his face, shaking his head and looking at the man across the room again.

"Hello? Is this a joke?"

"-no,"

"Stop. How- no why? Why are you doing this?"

"It had to be done John." Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot behind the chair. Perhaps he was remembering the last time he'd angered John.

"Oh, did it? And you couldn't tell me, you couldn't _trust_ me?" It was at this point that John had resumed his pacing.

"I couldn't. The circumstances would not allow it."

Disbelief filled his face. "The circumstances?"

John stopped his pacing and suddenly walked towards Sherlock, stopping only a few feet from him.

"It's been two years. I brought flowers –," John cleared his throat, struggling to stop the tears before he continued.

"I brought flowers to your – the grave on the anniversary…" He trailed off and just looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes a little wetter than usual, "I couldn't let anyone know, especially not you, John. It was part of the agreement I made."

"Agreement?" John suddenly felt like a parrot. He could do little else other than repeat the last of Sherlock's words and try, unsuccessfully at that, to process them.

"It was safer if I kept my distance. There were still people on a payroll to kill me. I couldn't have contacted you."

"I don't understand, Moriarty is dead. Why would there still be assassins out to kill you?"

"This whole thing was a lot more complicated than just Moriarty."

John looked down at the rug, rubbing his eyes as Sherlock looked on, pity etched in frown on his face, pain in his eyes.

"So what do you want now Sherlock? Hm? Should I rejoice at your miraculous reappearance and forget everything you put us through?"

This is not how it went in his head on the way over to the flat. He was to play the role of calm detective and John was to be angry, but logically accept that what Sherlock did was necessary, for the both of them.

Neither of them said a word. The silence was more tense than awkward and was only broken minutes later when a door slammed downstairs.

A pause, then John asked, his voice low and gravelly, "Did you tell Mrs. Hudson?"

"I don't think Mycroft has had the chance to contact her yet," Sherlock replied, his eyes wide as he backed away from the entrance of the apartment. He made his way into the room until he was standing a little behind John, as if for protection.

Mrs. Hudson was humming a tune as she made her way up the stairs, head down as she fished through her bag for her keys.

She glanced up at John "Good evening, love. I'm making some cake if –," Mrs. Hudson stopped in sudden realization, she looked up again and locked eyes with Sherlock.

"Who are you?" She asked, her voice soft and fearful. John quickly made his way to the older woman, afraid of the way she may react.

"It's me," Sherlock replied cautiously.

"He didn't die, Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't be ridiculous, John." She moved closer to Sherlock with each word. He said nothing only looked on as John attempted to calm her.

Mrs. Hudson reached out and touched Sherlock's face and gasped as she began to cry. She resisted John's efforts to steer her to a chair. Instead she turned on Sherlock.

"How could you Sherlock?" She then pulled back a fist and punched him.


	4. Decisions

That night ended in tears, screams and accusations. Mrs. Hudson had found it in her gracious heart to forgive Sherlock, but not John, the pain was too new. And when Sherlock walked out of 221B that night, it killed John not to call him back, to tell him that it was okay and all could be fixed.

As he left the building, John tried to ignore the eyes he felt on his back all the way to the waiting taxi across the street. He knew he should have handled that situation better. But he still wasn't looking forward to mending burned bridges with Sherlock. A part of him wanted to see him suffer just a bit.

What seemed to slip John's mind was that it wasn't exactly easy for Sherlock to stay away all of those months.

The first week after Reichenbach was a struggle between Sherlock and Mycroft as they negotiated the terms of his cover-up. He couldn't count the number of times he'd pick up the phone with the intention of calling John only to consider the repercussions of such an action and stop himself.

And now they had the chance to go back to how it all began, a case.

There was a message waiting for John when he returned to the flat from Lestrade,

"Um, hello, it's me," John smiled at how awkward the inspector sounded, "Look, I know how the situation is right now between you and Sherlock, but I really need this done. And if you two solve this one, well my superiors won't come down on me for using you in my investigations. I'll understand though, if you don't, you know want to." There was a pause, "Anyways call me back with your decision."

John considered Lestrade's words as he went about making lunch.

Would it be that simple? He would like to believe that working together with Sherlock again would be easy, but John was wiser than that. Things would be awkward and the tension between them would eventually explode with the anger John had been holding onto. It was all he had now really, his anger and his memories with the man he once called his friend. A pair of damaged goods sharing a flat in London.

John walked over to the desk to retrieve the case file.

After skimming over the details, John called Lestrade, "Hello? Yes it's me. Okay. Okay I'll do it."

And with those few words, John was back, although he was hardly sure of what he was getting himself into. But then again it wasn't as if he was sure the first time either. John sat at the desk and stared at the faded smiley face and the now patched-up bullet holes on the wall. Opening up his laptop, John began typing, "The Case of ..."


	5. And They're Off

John was set to meet with Sherlock the following day at a café near the scene of the first crime. It all seemed slightly rushed to John but he hardly had any say in the matter. Lestrade was eager to catch the depraved culprit.

As the cab pulled up a block away from the café, John spotted Sherlock standing outside, smoking. As John paid the driver, Sherlock finished the cigarette and made his way inside, not having spotted John.

Smoking again. It was an addiction John thought Sherlock had overcome years ago. Sure he had his lapses, but he was human. No one had been there recently to hide the cigarettes, to tell Sherlock that he was a better person for not giving into such temptations. The only man who did thought him dead.

John took a deep breath before walking into the shop. Not that it helped. His heart was still beating too fast, his hands betraying his nerves as he fidgeted with his wallet. He spotted Sherlock at a table at a table in the back and locked eyes.

Sherlock looked unsure as he began to smile one of his misplaced smiles when John turned away. He didn't want to see which smile it was. Was it the one Sherlock used on clients when he wanted them to feel at ease, a strained attempt at empathy? Or the smile he never meant to show, it came out when he was excited at some inappropriate thing like another suicide with a note or a well thought out deduction.

And yet still there was a third, one meant for John. It was private and rare and always caught them both off guard.

John walked over to the cashier and ordered a coffee, black with two sugars, still trying to kill time he didn't have before facing him. When he finally made his way over to the table, Sherlock's smile, whichever one it was, was gone. Replaced now by another, well-known look: cold indifference. John always did hate that look, but in this instance it helped him keep his emotions in check. This meeting was probably just another step in regaining normalcy to Sherlock.

"Hello," They both started at the same time followed by an uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock, always the straight-forward one, cleared his throat and was the first to continue.

"I realize, John, that this situation may be of some…discomfort to the both of us, however I am willing to put that aside -,"

"It's fine." John cut him short, then another pause.

"Right, well let's get started," Sherlock said as he began shuffling through the documents John knew he already memorized. John found himself smiling as he looked at Sherlock who was too busy pretending to concentrate the file in front of him.

'He is _actually_ nervous,' John thought. This made him, what was that emotion he felt? Happy? Flustered? Hopeful? No, John had learned by now not to invest such emotions into Sherlock, it would only lead to disappointment.

"I thought I could talk to the victim's families and you can handle the crime scenes," John said.

Sherlock stared blankly at him for a moment before replying, "You mean separately?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"I need you there. Lestrade requested both of us to work on this. I could miss something at the scene.

"You, miss something?" John raised an eyebrow in mock confusion.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, some detail having to do with sentiment or an irrational last minute decision made in the face of death."

John thought for a moment about arguing with the insistent man across from him. He didn't have the confidence that Sherlock seemed to have in their nearly forced partnership.

Sighing John said, "If you think that would be for the best, then fine."

Sherlock nodded, "I do."

Both men sat at the table looking anywhere but at each other until a waiter brought over John's coffee, "Actually, can I just get this to go?"

Sherlock's head turned quickly towards John. Ah, there it was, that look. The slightly-squinted-eyes-and-barely-there-frown look. Basically "what are you talking about?"

"I thought we should head out now," John said in response to the silent question.

John's coffee came and they left the shop, side by side, in silence.


	6. Back to That Night

The door slammed shut loudly behind Sherlock as he entered the hotel room he had been staying in since he returned to London a few days ago. Mycroft had offered him a place to stay, Lestrade as well, but Sherlock had gotten used to the solitude while he was away.

In the days filled with repetition and monotony after Reichenbach, reading and people-watching became Sherlock's primary means of entertainment. He was not to draw any attention to himself as he moved from city to city in order to avoid being recognized.

Sherlock loosened his scarf roughly and threw himself onto the nearest couch, his position resigned as he rubbed his eyes with one hand, weary with what had just happened and the other clutching at the armrest as he struggled to hold back the sadness and regret.

That had not gone well at all.

Sure Sherlock had expected the anger and harsh words when he suddenly showed up at 221B, but perhaps he'd been foolish to think John would be eager to forgive him. No doubt due to the two years he had spent imagining what their reunion would be like. Sherlock didn't prepare for this particular outcome.

He was still cringing over that dark look of disbelief in John's eyes as he refused to accept Sherlock's return as a good thing.

At one point, when John was forced to pull a hysterical and violent Mrs. Hudson away, Sherlock rested a hand on John's shoulder. He would not soon forget John's reaction, first of shock then fury as he jumped at the contact and roughly pushed Sherlock away. Begging Sherlock no to do this, to just go.

And that's just what he did when he realized that this night was not one for reconciliation.

Sherlock sighed and settled into the couch, deeming the bed to be too far away.

Should he just give up? No, that would defeat the entire purpose of coming back in the first place. Two years in hiding, wasted.

Digging through his coat pocket Sherlock pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He eyed it for a moment before proceeding to light one, enjoying the way the tension slide from him with that first drag. He only felt slightly guilty smoking these days, although it was a habit he never wanted John to see.

Sherlock checked his phone: four missed calls, all from his brother. They will go unanswered tonight; Sherlock had other things occupying his mind at the moment.

He would try again in the following weeks to speak to John. But his will to restore their relationship broke down with each ignored phone call and e-mail.

A few years ago Sherlock's mind would have overrode his heart. At that time he'd have gotten the hint and stopped trying to contact John. Abide by his apparent wishes to cut all ties. But with uncharacteristic stubbornness, he persisted.

The hotel room was quiet as Sherlock finished the cigarette. Ignoring the ashtray, he extinguished it on the wooden table in front of him.


	7. A Message

John and Sherlock caught a cab to the scene of the first murder. The twenty minute long ride proved to be a painfully uncomfortable experience for both men as they stared out opposite windows, watching the rain drizzle onto the London streets.

John pretended not to notice the furtive glances coming from Sherlock's direction. John himself was resisting the urge to look over, to see if he liked the shorter hair Sherlock was sporting these days or if he was wearing the purple dress shirt that he'd always liked. All he wanted to do was move a bit closer, but he had lost his opportunity when he chose to sit as far as possible upon first entering the cab. Because of this John managed to set the tone for the rest of the day. One of barely-there civility.

The car pulled up in front of a house blocked off by police tape. John walked ahead to greet the officer who was standing guard near the front door. Sherlock followed close behind, his eyes on John's back. As always trying to read him, trying to decide what he should say next and what topics to stay clear of.

When they entered the house, John stood off to the side, casually observing his surroundings as Sherlock got to work.

John had not realized before that moment how much he missed watching Sherlock work. It was fascinating and the expressions of whoever was watching, in this case the officer who followed them into the house, usually added to the experience. The officer watched, baffled as Sherlock got down on all floors to examine the scuff marks on the wooden floors.

After getting a proper sniff, Sherlock stood up suddenly, startling the officer who was not used to such methods of investigation. He shuffled over to the windows on the opposite side of the room, checking the locks on the window before proceeding to the bathroom where the murder had occurred.

John watched silently with his eyes fixed on Sherlock now that he had the opportunity to get a good look at him without interruption. It seemed Sherlock didn't change as much as John thought. His mannerisms were familiar, the way he immersed himself in a case and shut out the rest of the world. It seemed he lost more weight, if that were even possible, making John worry. He never did know how to keep a balanced diet.

As John went after Sherlock, he noticed that books had been overturned in the next room, as if someone had been sorting through them.

"Excuse me officer, is it alright to touch these?" John asked gesturing towards the books.

The officer nodded, "Yes sir, photos have already been taken of everything."

As John began picking through the books, he noticed most of them were on grammar, one in particular caught his eye. A book about shorthand. Suddenly, John remembered something from the case file.

"Sherlock!"

A loud sound came from the direction of the bathroom, as if something was dropped. A moment later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway with a forced calm about him.

It was the first time in a long while that John had said Sherlock's name directly.

"Did you – yes?" There was something in the look Sherlock gave John, something similar to hope. However John did not look up, he simply held out the book for Sherlock's inspection. The hope slid from Sherlock's eyes as he grabbed the book from John's hand.

He studied it for a moment before the realization suddenly clicked. The symbols that were drawn on the victim's bodies were not ancient symbols or a different language, but a form of shorthand.

The killer was trying to spell out a message.


	8. Mistakes

Wordlessly, Sherlock left the room to make a phone call to Lestrade. John stayed behind to continue examining the house. He found nothing else out of the ordinary and was about to leave when the officer stopped him.

"Is your friend always like that?" The man asked quietly. There was always that one person who went beyond staring curiously and actually questioned Sherlock's methods. In the past John would defend him, laugh or play it off, but it was different today.

"I'm not his friend," John said before turning his back on the confused man and walking away. Was it really that easy to say?

John only walked a few feet before he saw Sherlock standing just outside the front door, his back turned as he was speaking on the phone. Silently praying that Sherlock had not just heard what he said, John reconsidered his words.

Was he being too harsh? Had things between the two gotten to the point that he no longer considered Sherlock a friend?

It used to be "I'm not his date," or "I'm not his boyfriend." But it seemed now that their relationship had reached yet another level of complexity.

Sherlock had made his mistakes, if you could call what he did a mistake, but John was still making his.

Sherlock suddenly turned around, startling John who failed to realize that he no was longer on the phone. There was only silence and unsteady eye contact between them before John broke it.

"So what did Lestrade say?"

"He's coming by to take us to the morgue, we need to look at the writing on the bodies."

"Right, right. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Well you should. You're thinner than ever."

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, successfully hiding the small smile that appeared on his face.

"No time, plus you know I don't eat when I'm on a case."

"Seriously? That's your excuse? Honestly you really should learn to eat better especially now that you're alone - ,"

John paused as he realized the implications of his words. Sherlock turned to look at him, that steady glare John had come to associate with anger. Behind him, a black car pulled up and Lestrade stepped out.

"Is that what I am then, John? Alone?" Sherlock kept his gaze on John, refusing to acknowledge the sound of someone walking up the driveway behind him.

John was saved from giving an answer when Lestrade walked up to them, not bothering to mask his questioning gaze.

"You two alright?"

Sherlock, forced to look away, greeted Lestrade with a tight smile, "Never better."

He looked between them for another moment before turning around silently and walking towards the car. They followed silently, John took the back seat and ignored Lestrade who was attempting to make eye contact in the mirror the entire ride over. He would tell him the results of their renewed partnership later.

A little more than an hour was spent in the morgue and after taking notes Lestrade forced them to agree to meet the next day to continue with the investigation. Because of the information they gathered that day he was able to cross a few suspects off of his list.

John and Sherlock shared a cab away from the morgue. A majority of the last hour was spent by the two ignoring Lestrade's attempts to make them speak to one another.

The cab ride was much like the one earlier that day. Quiet and filled with unspoken things that should have already been said. John's curiosity got the best of him as the car pulled up in front of 221B.

"Where are you staying?" He asked as he paid the driver.

"I have a room at Lancaster Court." Sherlock said, his words clipped, devoid of emotion. John guessed he deserved it.

"Oh," John stopped speaking, he almost found himself telling Sherlock to come back to Baker Street. His old room was still there, untouched. Mrs. Hudson made her way up there weekly to clean it, all the while insisting that she was not John's housekeeper. But his determination to stay firm in his indifference proved overwhelming, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Good night then," John stepped out of the cab and walked to the door.

When he got upstairs John went straight to his room and got into bed. The day didn't go nearly as bad as he thought it would, but was the alone comment really necessary? He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head as he attempted to repress the bad memory of his stupidity and get some sleep.

He only thought of one thing, when twenty minutes ago he heard Sherlock's soft "Goodnight," as he shut the cab door.


	9. Mending

Light streaming through the blinds woke Sherlock the next morning, the brightness bringing his headache into full focus. Upon returning to the hotel last night, Sherlock indulged in a few more drinks than necessary. If drinking by oneself until passing out was not the height of loneliness then he didn't know what was.

Sherlock checked his watch for the time, 10 AM. He pushed himself off the couch with a sigh, he was to meet John at the flat in an hour to discuss the case. The only reason for this meeting was that Sherlock feigned ignorance about what he already knew about the killer: male, late twenties – early thirties, college graduate and a history of violence easily read in the way he went through the things at the first victim's home and the carelessness in which he killed them. He was also probably growing impatient with the police which meant more deaths.

Sherlock was already close to deciphering the unique short hand that was used, but found himself distracted. He lingered in the shower a few minutes longer than usual thinking about how he was going to deal with what he was calling the "John situation." He tried, in his own way, to mend the relationship but John was not easily persuaded.

Not bothering to shave, Sherlock got dressed and chose to walk to Baker Street. It was a nice enough morning and he was hoping the fresh air would help his alcohol-induced nausea.

Sherlock begun to panic as he approached the building. Mrs. Hudson would greet him readily enough but John would remain taciturn and virtually unreadable.

The front door was suddenly pulled open before he had a chance to knock.

"Hello Sherlock!" she exclaimed before pulling him into a strong hug, "How are you?"

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson," he said smiling "and you?"

"Oh I'm alright, John should be upstairs."

Sherlock nodded and made his way up, preparing himself for the worst. The door was ajar, so he knocked lightly before letting himself into the dimly lit apartment. John was at the desk, typing away at his laptop. Sherlock had missed coming home to that when he was away.

John turned his head sharply when he heard someone come in, his face softening when he saw Sherlock.

"Oh, you're here. Come in," John got up and moved into the kitchen to make tea.. He pretended not to notice the 5 o'clock shadow that somehow made Sherlock even more attractive, it looked like he had a rough night.

Sitting on the couch, Sherlock looked about the room, not much had changed. A few things were missing, the skull for example.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock squeezed out the question, "Um, do you mind if I ask, what happened to the skull?"

The tinkering of cups in the kitchen came to a halt.

"It's in your bedroom."

Those few words made Sherlock's breathing go a bit unsteady. "Your bedroom," as if it was still there for him to call his own.

"Oh," was his only response. A minute later John set the tea down in front of him, avoiding eye contact and instead choosing to focus on the file in his hand.

"So have you been able to decipher any of it yet?"

"A few words, the killer is using a mix of common shorthand symbols and his own unique version so it will take me a bit more time."

"Is it expensive?" John asked suddenly.

Caught off guard by the question Sherlock choked on his tea, "Is what..."

"Living at the hotel. You've been there for months," John trailed off. Was he actually about to do this? John had been considering for weeks now whether or not to ask Sherlock to move back in. But what if it was one-sided and Sherlock never had any intention of coming back?

"It's not so bad. The manager of the hotel owes me a favor so it works out," Sherlock should have said something else, now it sounded as if he didn't want to come back when he knew it was quite the opposite.

John nodded furiously as he looked down into his cup, he should have known Sherlock had everything sorted, they were past having to depend on each other.

"But," Sherlock continued, "it does get a little pricey, I'm not exactly making big bucks working for Lestrade."

"Right, well you know, if things become hard to manage, you're always welcome to your old room."

Sherlock stared at John, watched the way his face reddened after having finally extended that offer. He didn't think he would ask, the way things had been going between them lately. But this seemed to be a step in the right direction for them both.

John took a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eye, "If you want."

"That would be great."

And that was all it took. It was easier for the two to discuss the case after that. The hostility was gone at least, and now when they met each other's eye they could share a small smile.


	10. Theories

I'm sorry about the slow postings, the spring semester just started at college and I'm a bit busy!

Two days after John made the offer, Sherlock moved in. He made sure he came at a time when John was not at home. They had yet to move past the awkward formalities in the rebuilding of their relationship and Sherlock didn't want to push it. When he finished packing away the last of his things, Sherlock walked about the flat enjoying how familiar everything was. It had been a while since he felt this comfortable anywhere.

He considered preparing dinner, but not only did he draw a blank on what or how to cook, he also wanted to take this opportunity to invite John to dinner. It would be casual, a way to ease back into their lives together.

John and Sherlock cracked the shorthanded killer case only hours after John had extended the invitation for Sherlock to once again take up residence in 221B. The symbols that had been left on the body of the first victim led to the address of the second victim, and the symbols on his body led to the address of the third victim and so forth. When they decoded the address of the next target, the police waited for the killer and captured him, he was half out of his mind with madness.

What was different about this particular case was that it failed to result in a cleverly written blog post with a glaringly obvious title. Sherlock wasn't sure if things would ever go back to that.

As he read the paper on the couch, in the same clothes he woke up in hours ago, Sherlock wondered when John would be arriving home. It felt good to think of 221B in that context again, as home. It was already 8 o'clock but he hardly knew what John's social habits were like these days.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard the door slam downstairs. He quickly put away the paper, however as the footsteps got closer it sounded more like two pairs of feet instead of one. Sherlock quickly stood as John entered the room, with another man in tow.

Stopping short when he saw Sherlock was home, John spoke quickly "Oh, Sherlock, you're home?"

"-Yes."

John smiled and turned to the man behind him who meanwhile was staring at Sherlock, "Matthew this is Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock, this is Matthew Gibson."

The attractive older man stepped forward with an extended hand grinning wildly, "Hello Mr. Holmes, I've heard so much about you."

Sherlock, still confused as to what John's relationship was with the man nodded slowly and accepted the offered handshake, "From John?" He figured saying 'I've heard absolutely nothing about _you_' would not be a good way to get back on John's good side.

"Well yes, and the articles! It's fascinating, the work that you do!"

The man was hyper and obviously easily excitable, just the kind of person Sherlock hated being around.

"Thank you," Sherlock answered softly before turning his attention back to John, "Do you two work together?"

Matthew gave John a side-glance, "No, we met on a case a while back."

Sherlock noticed the way the man wore his tie and the brand of shoes, a police officer? No, he was higher up than that, perhaps another inspector in a division separate from Lestrade. He made note to ask Lestrade about this Gibson fellow later on.

"We were going to get some dinner, you should join us!" Matthew said to Sherlock who was busy ignoring him and looking at John who was looking at the floor. It was the offer Sherlock had been waiting for, but from the wrong man.

Forcing himself to look at Matthew he declined, "Thank you, but no. I have a prior engagement for dinner in a half hour." A lie, but if Sherlock was going to eat anything with anyone that night it would be with John.

John was avoiding meeting Sherlock's gaze, he had been for the entire exchange. He was hiding something.

"I'll go get that book from my room then we can head out," John said to Matthew, leaving Sherlock alone in the room with the man he now secretly regarded as the grinning fool.

"Please have a seat, can I offer you anything?" Sherlock made his way over to the couch.

"Oh no, I'm fine! Actually I'm curious, when did you move back in with John?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the forward nature of the man. Who was he to ask such questions to someone he'd only just met?

Spotting Sherlock's expression Matthew backtracked, "I only ask because you weren't living here when I was over last week," he laughed uneasily, "I didn't mean to be intrusive."

So he's been here before.

"No it's…fine. I moved in this morning."

"Amazing! I do hope John starts up that blog again!"

"Right."

John came back into the room, obviously in a hurry. He looked at Matthew and gestured with his head "Let's get going," John looked over at Sherlock who had already been staring at him, his expression neutral, "I'll see you later Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded as the two men left the flat. In his head he was going over all the possible circumstances of their relationship but refused to considered the one he knew was most possible. That they were lovers.


	11. Thinking Back

When John met Matthew on that first case six months after Sherlock jumped, he was broken and unwilling to get back into this business of crime-solving without his partner, the man who brought him there. But the world continued to spin and he knew he could not simply stop working, plus his therapist was getting worried about the long walks he would take back to place where it all happened and the cemetery.

"You have to let him go John," she said softly one session, "remember the good times and let him go."

So that's what John began doing.

Meeting Matthew helped him, the enthusiastic man forced John to get back out into the world. There were dinners and movies then one night, after a few drinks Matthew kissed him. It wasn't completely unexpected or unwanted and John couldn't deny that he was attracted to men. He realized it every time he caught himself watching Sherlock as he read a book or played the violin, then he would imagine those long fingers and angelic face later that night. John realized it with every denial he made of the fact.

When Matthew kissed him it healed him a bit, at least enough for John to sleep through the night for once. They continued to see each other in the following months and John grew comfortable despite Sherlock never being too far from his mind, but at least the visits to the cemetery stopped.

And then that call came and Sherlock was back and John didn't want to tell him. John tried to convince himself that it was because Sherlock had no right to know because he left him all those months ago, but he knew better than that. He was scared and didn't want this to drive Sherlock away.

Matthew had heard about Sherlock's return through the department and wanted to meet the mysterious man in his boyfriend's life and John stalled as long as he could but the day had come for them to meet.

Matthew wasn't foolish, he saw the look on John's face every time the consulting detective's name was mentioned, and he noticed Sherlock's shock and displeasure when introduced meaning John hadn't told him.

But Matthew knew he wouldn't be the first one to let go. If John wanted him to leave he would, but not a moment before he asked.

Sherlock didn't leave the flat that night, and John didn't come home. He accepted the food Mrs. Hudson had so kindly brought up for him but it remained untouched on the table. Sherlock went to bed at 3 in the morning when he realized John was not coming home that night, plus he could only casually stay up "reading" for so long.

All he wanted was to see John's face before he slept to put him at ease.

The next morning Sherlock woke to banging noises in the kitchen and the smell of food cooking. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, savoring this feeling of being in his bed back in this apartment. It had been a while.

It was 8:30 AM, and Sherlock wondered what time John got in that he was up so early. Knowing that he couldn't sleep now that he knew John was in the other room, Sherlock got out of bed. He was cautious leaving his room, Matthew may be over and Sherlock already felt as if he were intruding on their relationship.

Peeking into the kitchen, Sherlock spotted John fiddling with a frying pan, he was cooking eggs and toast, the most basic of breakfasts. Hearing a slight noise behind him, John turned around startling Sherlock who meant to head back to his room undetected, obviously this was a meal meant for one.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said as he brought himself out from behind the door.

"Hello," he said before he turned his back again to continue cooking. Sherlock almost took that as a dismissal before John spoke again, "Would you like some breakfast?"

Seeing as his back was turned, Sherlock allowed a wide smile to grace his face. Just like old times, well not exactly but it felt good.

John stood at the oven frying the eggs as Sherlock prepared the tea. They quietly moved around each other in kitchen, careful not to touch. Similar to an old dance, despite not having practiced in a while one could never forget the steps.


	12. And It Begins

"I didn't wake you did I?" John asked as he set the table, not bothering to look at him.

"No, I was already awake," Sherlock lied as he put the tea on the table and took a seat across from where John would sit. He didn't mind that John's noisy breakfast preparations woke him, he enjoyed the sound of domesticity

Nodding, John turned his attention back to the food, careful not to let anything burn as Sherlock comfortably watched him cook.

John sat down after placing the food on the table, scrambled eggs, toast and fruit. He looked across at Sherlock who was making a conscious effort not to make eye contact. John opened his mouth as if to speak but quickly shut it again when he realized what he was about to do.

He came very close to apologizing to the man across the table. But what was there to say?

"Sorry I didn't come home last night," or, "it was too late to make the trip back?" Why should he feel the need to explain himself? He was a grown man who could come and go as he pleased.

Then why did he feel so guilty?

"Lestrade called for you, earlier while you were asleep," John said in between bites.

Sill not meeting his eyes, Sherlock nodded "I'll call him back."

Was that all? This was not how things were supposed to be going. Sherlock had assumed normalcy would return between them upon arrival back at 221B, but both men had erected shields around their hearts in the time they spent apart. John was trying hard not to let the consulting detective back in and it was not in Sherlock's nature to express his emotions so easily, no matter how strong.

John's patience was wearing thin, he wanted to Sherlock and force him to look him in the eye for once. Was that asking for too much? Perhaps it was.

Sherlock, on the other hand, could see the potential for rebuilding their relationship falling away right in front of him and he didn't know how to stop it. Why was he so unable to say the right thing for the sake of keeping John?

"So where did you and…Matthew was it, eat last night?"

Sherlock winced internally, out of all the conversation topics to be picked he chose the one that made him sound like a jealous ex? Self- destruction at its finest.

John was caught off guard at the direction the conversation had taken, but he answered Sherlock's inquiry in a seemingly unbothered tone, "Just to that Italian place nearby."

Sherlock did not answer for his heart was too filled with anger. It was the restaurant he had taken John on their first case together, sentiment.

He clenched his jaw as he grinded out his next words, "Did Angelo treat you well?"

"Mhmm," John hummed his agreement. The food was finished at this point and both had moved on to the tea.

"Well, that's good I suppose," the unhappiness in Sherlock's voice was obvious.

John gave him a hard look, allowing the silence between them stretch on until he asked, "Do you not like the fact that we ate there?"

"What?" He didn't. He hated the idea of John bringing that ridiculous man to _their_ place. But it was not something Sherlock could admit so easily.

"If you don't like it just tell me and we won't go back there."

"You can go back just not -" Sherlock stopped himself, he was getting dangerously close to revealing his jealousy.

John stared in disbelief, was Sherlock really this childish? Shaking his head, John abruptly pushed his chair back and began leaving the table. It was a reaction that Sherlock had not been expecting and that John himself did not understand. Perhaps it was Sherlock's apparent indifference that got to him, but John wanted him to care when he did not make it home after dates.

Sherlock followed close behind and grabbed his arm, spinning him around so they could speak face each other, finally. He could not allow yet another conversation to end in anger, it had to stop.

The sudden close contact did things to their hearts they missed, the nervous flutter and rapid pace both had always tried desperately to ignore.

So Sherlock kissed him. It was quick and awkward and uncoordinated and Sherlock loved the way it felt. It was a wonderful mistake that Sherlock immediately regretted, when he saw the look on John's face, of shock and confusion.

With that, Sherlock took a quick step back, "I-I'm sorry John, I don't-."

"What the fuck was that?" However John did not sound angry, in fact they were spoken with a strange softness to them, he licked his lips, a movement Sherlock followed with his eyes. Did that just happen?

"I don't know what came over me."

Sherlock had his hands clasped, almost as if he were pleading. John stared, he had made a promise to himself never to give in to the daily temptation that was Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock had just gone and broken that promise, so no one could blame him for what happened next.

"Why'd you stop?"

And with a step forward, John closed the space and once again found himself pressed against his flatmate.

They stayed like that for a while, neither could say for how long they spent entwined sharing kisses in the kitchen.

The world was suffocating in the years he spent away from John, now Sherlock could breathe easily again.


End file.
